The Keys to my Diary: Marina

3. March 29

March 29

I have been avoiding the corner of the room where this diary sits because I have no idea what I'm supposed to be recording in here. I guess I'll try, but it doesn't seem to come naturally to me like it does to Fern. Of course, she's been keeping a journal for almost thirty years, so I guess she has her fair share of practice at it. I wonder what she writes in hers? Maybe I should ask if she will let me see hers...kind of an 'I'll show you mine, if you'll show me yours' exchange. She would probably shoot that idea down in a heartbeat because her diary is bound to be much more steamy than this one. Her first diary as a pre-teen is probably juicier than this one. I really need to up my juice factor.

It should be acknowledged that successfully avoiding the journal (or anything else) in my tiny hovel is a miraculous feat. That accomplishment doesn't keep me from feeling guilty for majorly failing at journaling, though.

Calling this round-cornered living room / kitchenette / bedroom a 'room' is a bit of a stretch. Looking around the dilapidated Airstream that I now call home is a reminder of the hot mess of slimy goo my life has slithered into.

I used to be the only one of my friends who had it all together. I was married. I had an amazing job that most people would kill for, and I lived in a home––a real home, with shutters and a garage and its own washer and dryer. I miss my washer and dryer. The laundry mat smells like feet, and it costs a small fortune. I've probably already paid for a new washer––all in quarters, of course––in the weeks since I left Frank (and our house) and moved into our aging trailer. The ability to pay for the machines has little meaning, however, since I have NO room for them.

I probably should have hired a divorce attorney and insisted on keeping the house. After all, Frank was the one who broke our marriage vows, not me. He is the reason we are no longer married, not me––even though he loves pointing out that I am the one who left. Even knowing that I was getting the short end of the stick by moving to the trailer, I didn't have it in me to fight him for the house. I felt sad and betrayed and I just wanted out, by any means necessary.

Fern keeps telling me to focus on the positive, but I'm struggling with that suggestion. The overarching sadness that my failed marriage is causing suffocates my feeble attempts to be chipper. I'd rather kick something. Hard. Perhaps I am moving into the anger phase of grief? It will have to be better than the empty, desolate darkness I've been enduring. At least if I'm angry, I'll still feel alive. I have felt like a zombie lately, just marching dazedly through my life on autopilot.

My close friends became concerned about my overwhelming sadness. They even suggested that I might need to move home to lick my wounds and heal for a while. By home they meant my real home––in Arkansas––where I am originally from, NOT my home down here where I lived with Frank. (They care about me too much to ever suggest I return to having my heart trod upon by him.) The vast majority of us in this area are Florida Keys transplants from other locations that we consider our real homes. Even people who have lived here for the past twenty-five years are still not considered true 'conchs' or locals.

I wish that moving back home was really a viable option, but since my family was dead set against my marriage to Frank, it's not a possibility. I thumbed my nose at my parents and informed them that I was old enough to make my own decisions before running off and marrying Frank, at what I now realize was way too young of an age. They practically disowned me over it and my relationship with them has never been the same since. I certainly don't want to give them the satisfaction of verifying that they had been right all along.

Deep down, I know that I stayed with Frank much longer than I should have. I was aware of his cheating for longer than I care to admit, and I had strong suspicions for a long time before that. My stubborn refusal to admit that my family had been right about our marriage being a mistake kept me from leaving until it seemed I had no other choice, if I wanted to hold on to my last shred of self-respect.

At one point, while I was still with Frank, I started exchanging flirtatious messages with Brian, my ex-boyfriend from high school, via f*******:. He seemed genuinely interested in what I had to say, unlike Frank whose eyes tended to glaze over whenever I spoke. It was so tempting to run home to try to rekindle my relationship with Brian, but I finally decided that I couldn't run away from my marital problems. Besides, running home would only give my parents the opportunity to say, “I told you so,” about my ill-fated marriage.

Those desperate and pathetic emails had been the closest I ever came to cheating on Frank. On several occasions, I considered finding someone willing and able to keep my bed warm when Frank failed to come home. I just didn't have it in me, though. I'm not a cheater. I don't believe in it, and I won't do it... even though he deserves it and thought nothing of repeatedly betraying my trust by bedding anyone with a skimpy bikini top and short skirt who ventured into his line of vision.

For a while, I was angry with the women. I hated them for being more attractive to Frank than I was. I blamed them for his indiscretions. I felt like if they weren't willing to jump into his bed, then maybe he would stay in mine.

I realize now what a foolish stance this was. It took many late nights of crying and sharing entire bottles of wine with Fern to realize that I was displacing my anger. Most of the women he was with probably didn't have any idea he was married. I tried to convince myself that they should have somehow known, but the reality that he likely hid his wedding ring and led them to believe he was single, was as unavoidable of a conclusion as a migraine at a pulse-pounding laser lights club on disco night.

Honestly, I can't even bring myself to blame them for sleeping with him. His shiny black hair is just starting to show the beginning speckles of gray. His perpetual five o'clock shadow, startling blue eyes, and relaxed demeanor only serve to add to his blatant s*x appeal. He drives a dive boat in paradise and no doubt presents himself as being ready, willing, and available. Who wouldn't want to hit that? I sure couldn't ever resist him. Why should I expect anyone else to?

It's probably a dream come true for most of his conquests, until they wake up the next morning only to realize he has his sights set on his next victim. All the while, I was sitting at home, pining away for him and cherishing any tiny bit of attention he decided to carelessly toss my way. Pathetic.

Not anymore, though. Wimpy Marina West is in the past. Marina Carpenter has taken her place. I am strong, and I am done being a victim! It's going to be my life, my way, from now on. I'm in charge of me, and I'm going to turn this shattered shell of a woman I've become into someone who is happy and enjoys her life. It's possible to do that, right? Happy people do exist, don't they? Even if they only exist in wishes and fairy tales, I vow to make it happen and become one. Let the happiness transformation begin now.

Hmm. Now what?